Sunday at the Brownstone
by NairobiWonders
Summary: A rainy Sunday at the brownstone, slice of life vignette, no drama, no plot. Mainly platonic, but borders on joanlock. Thanks for reading!


Sundays, when they were not working a case, the brownstone took on a more relaxed air. Sherlock, always up first, sometimes because he had never slept, started the tea and retrieved the paper. Joan got herself up by 9:30 at the latest and they'd take their tea into the outer room. The paper was divvied, both read the whole thing, but each had a different order to their study of the news. They pointed out items of interest to each other, discussed facts that might become useful in a future case and got into the odd argument or two. Dessert was the crossword puzzle. Joan did the puzzle since Sherlock claimed it did not challenge him sufficiently. His part of the puzzle solving process was to peer over her shoulder and offer advice, solicited or otherwise.

This Sunday morning was a particularly grey and drizzly one. There was a chill in the air which caused Sherlock to find his warmest and also rattiest sweater. Watson truly disliked this one. He put it on with a smile.

9:30 came and went and Watson had yet to make an appearance. He refrained from opening the paper, after all a ritual is a ritual. But by 9:45 he grew impatient and headed upstairs with a tray.

Tentatively he opened her bedroom door. His hands being full precluded him knocking, not that he would have knocked even if his hands had been free. He peeked in to find Watson still under the covers but wide awake. His presence was rewarded with a smile.

"Ah, you are awake!" He walked in and with a small bounce set the tray on what he deemed to be his chair in the room.

She stretched her arms and was about to protest that he needn't have, when she saw the paper tucked under his arm and the words "Oh good, you brought the paper too!" came out instead.

Watson sat up, puddled the covers around her and took the hot mug of tea from Sherlock with a thank you. A look was exchanged between them, the silent equivalent of Holmes asking if he may sit with her on the bed and Watson saying of course don't be foolish. She patted the pillow next to her. He took his place. The rain pinged at the windows a bit more intently and the light turned a bit more grey, as they shuffled through the sections of the paper.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked.

"Nope." He pointed to his ratty sweater and she rolled her eyes. A small smile crept along Holmes' face.

"I'm going to have to find a way to make that woolly rag disappear," she mumbled into the paper.

Dramatically Sherlock turned his head up and squinted at her, "Touch this lovely vintage jumper, madam, and your red cardigan will suffer the consequences."

Joan gasped in mock horror, "You wouldn't dare!" He lifted an eyebrow at her and twisted his mouth into a goofy grimace of sham menace. Watson lightly shook her head and with a small chuckle shot a warm look in his direction. Sherlock, quite pleased with her reaction, went back to reading.

When the crossword puzzle time of the morning's proceedings was reached, Holmes produced a pen for her and got a little closer so he could backseat drive.

As they neared the puzzle's completion, Sherlock mentioned, "I was thinking about going to the Met's exhibit of Peruvian featherworks later this afternoon, care to join? ... 23 down is 'marsupial'."

"Hmm... you're right." Watson scribbles in the word.

"Of course I'm right." Holmes stated as he made sure she spelled the word correctly.

"Yes." Joan answered his original question. "That's supposed to be excellent."

"We could even have dinner in the city if you'd like..." Sherlock said in his most nonchalant manner, discretely glancing at her eyes and face to gauge her reaction.

Watson's response was enthusiastic, "Oh, there's a Peruvian restaurant not far from the museum, that might be interesting to try."

Holmes masked his satisfaction, "Hmmm. I think twelve down is wrong. It should be "robotic" - see that works. ... Done." They sat shoulder to shoulder, in amicable silence, enjoying their accomplishment and the sound of the rain on the windows.

Later in the afternoon, a more appropriately dressed Holmes waited by the stairs for Watson. He heard Watson's door open just as his phone chimed.

As Watson came down the stairs, he yelled up to her. "Sorry Watson. That was Gregson. Our presence is requested at a rather gruesome event." He sounded jubilant.

Holmes caught a glimpse of Watson coming down the steps in a a low cut black silk blouse, tight pencil skirt and stiletto boots, her hair pulled back into a loose braid. He stood and looked at her for a few seconds longer than he should. She noticed. Watson was equally pleased with Holmes. He had put on a dark suit jacket, black shirt with a deep blue tie. After a beat, they both pushed their musings aside and snapped back to reality.

Disappointed, she said, "I guess I'd better change then." She turned to make her way upstairs.

He cleared his throat, "Good idea. You show up like that and the NYPD boys won't be able to focus on their work," he said as he tried not to watch her climb up the stairs.


End file.
